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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Trouble was caused by love of sausage, Summer sausage by strict definition, Which is any sausage loved by masses That can be kept without refrigeration. Until a day when a man arrives Walking into a home, his destination, The sausage was waiting, calling His name, how could he avoid the temptation? He lost his vision of all other tasks In a quest for this pork perfection. Who is to say it wasn’t true love? Who can resist the salty pig parts? The slender casing surrounding the Tube of leftover scraps, like hearts. The exact ingredients are makers secrets, No recipes, or measuring, or charts. The love in the hands of the artist Who takes the whole pig, and some parts. Often mixed with beef or venison In secret combinations, takes smarts. The magic of putting it all together, Mixing and cooking and chopping, Is wasted on a young man’s greed, Who never even did the shopping. Lost in the quest for food and drink Shoving food in, there’s no stopping. Heartless abandon to those around Staying for free, just flopping. Sausage created a wall for him Between starving and groc shopping. Did he even taste the subtle tang Of a creation with just the right fat? Does he even know the time it took To get the ingredients where they’re at? Did he miss the testament to the hog, The life of the pig for just that? Does he even have a clue that all meat, Fat, salt and herbs, must be so exact? He couldn’t have wolfed down a log Of chorizo, for it would be too hot. He couldn’t have handled the extra Garlic in one, he’d faint right on the spot. The mustard seed, black pepper And salt gave it just the right shot, Of spices, then add in a grace Of sugar, to make it the best he got. Dried or smoked, he grunted right through Gone in a whisper, it was not.
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